‘Yeah, go on.’
‘Okay, look, I have to go in a minute, so I can’t go into details, but here it is in a nutshell. The guy in Hartigans looks up their records and says, yeah, here it is: a delivery of half a ton of coconut-husk chips to a gardener called Emmet Byrne. And one of the local guys, who knows him, says Byrne’s got form for indecent assault. So we all go tearing over to his place and, when we get there, first thing we see is a white Transit van, the side door open and what’s all over the floor of the van except a load of sacks from this coconut stuff. And what are the sacks made of? Exactly those same red plastic fibres we got on the other victims. I mean, they’re so distinctive, they literally couldn’t be anything else. So we had him, bang to fucking rights. It was amazing.’
Mulcahy laughed as she broke off again, her excitement infectious even down the phone line. Then she had to go. ‘Lonergan’s calling me. We’re going in to do the press conference now. I’ve got to go.’
‘Yeah, good luck with—’
But she was gone before he could finish the sentence.
Healy kept him waiting for a few minutes before Noreen’s phone buzzed and he was ushered in. This time the office was in semi-darkness; only the glare from a huge flat-screen TV on the wall supplemented the meagre light penetrating the curtains drawn shut across the huge window. Healy was standing by his desk, remote control in his hand, raising the volume on what revealed itself to be a press conference. The cameras showed a long table on a dais, where four people – one in heavily braided uniform, three in suits – were seated in front of microphones, answering questions. One of them, he saw, was Brogan.
‘Brendan, I just heard—’
Healy put a finger to his lips and swept a hand towards the chair in front of his desk. ‘Sit down there for a minute, Mike, this is just coming to the end. RTE’s putting this news conference out live.’
In close-up appeared the man they all worked for. The heavy-set, furrow-browed Garda Commissioner Thurloch Garvey, his smoke-grey uniform trimmed with enough gold to underpin a third-world economy, was looking eager to wind up the session, as he asked for any other questions. The camera switched back to the room and a flurry of raised arms, picking out one in particular from the pack of jostling reporters. Mulcahy instantly recognised Siobhan Fallon’s mop of curly black hair and curvy frame. Just what he bloody needed with Healy hovering beside him.
‘Don’t you think it’s all a little bit convenient, Commissioner Garvey?’ Siobhan inquired, flashing her familiar smile. ‘I mean, a murder last night and you pick up a suspect by lunchtime. This despite the fact that another team of detectives has been looking for The Priest for weeks already?’
Garvey bridled. ‘That’s a ridiculous assertion. Of course it’s not a question of convenience. Next question, please.’
The camera panned back to the throng of reporters, from which came an indignant shout. Siobhan was trying to ask a follow-up but Commissioner Garvey flatly ignored her. ‘Okay,’ he said into the microphone. ‘If there’s nothing more, we’ll wrap this up now. Any further enquiries will be dealt with by Superintendent Lonergan via the Garda Press Office. Thank you.’
As they gathered their papers and left the room the camera cut back to the RTE news presenter and Healy pointed the remote at the TV and lowered the volume.
‘She has a way of getting up people’s noses, that girl,’ he said as he walked back around the desk and settled into his swivel chair.
Mulcahy thought it best not to respond to that.
‘Anyway, it’s a great result for us all,’ Healy went on.
‘Sounds like it – and solid too.’
‘You spoke to Claire?’
Mulcahy nodded.
‘As soon as those forensics come through,’ Healy said, ‘it’ll be in the bag. Lonergan told me so personally.’
‘It’s just a shame his crew has to get all the credit.’
There was a creak of leather from the chair as Healy leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk, pressing his fingers to his nose, staring at Mulcahy.
‘You know, if I’m honest, I’m not so sorry about that. It’ll still be a long road preparing the case for the DPP, and this whole thing has been a bad lot from the start. It’s never good when politicians get too closely involved.’ As he said it, Healy made a cleansing motion with his hands, as if throwing something imaginary into his waste bin. Mulcahy wondered whether Healy really thought a girl’s life was a price worth paying to pass the buck to Lonergan and the Murder Squad.
‘Anyway, things have moved on now,’ Healy continued. ‘All the investigations are being linked and dealt with under the one umbrella by Lonergan and his team. But there’s still a loose end, and it’s one the Minister wants tied up quickly. That’s the Spanish involvement – which, as you know, is still causing the government a bit of stick. Thanks chiefly to your friend Fallon and her colleagues.’
Something must have cracked in the poker face Mulcahy thought he’d adopted because Healy smiled and sat back in his seat.
‘Don’t worry, Mike. All we want you to do is go to Madrid and take a statement from young Jesica Salazar. I got a call through this morning saying that she’s well enough now to be formally interviewed.’
‘I thought you were handling all that yourself now, sir?’
Healy shifted in his seat a little uncomfortably. ‘Yes, well, according to this fella Martinez who called us, it seems Señor Salazar is insisting that the interview should be conducted by someone the girl is familiar with, namely you. There’s also a continuity-of-evidence benefit, and the Minister is particularly concerned that there shouldn’t be any holes in the judicial process due to Miss Salazar’s, eh, unorthodox removal from our jurisdiction. Especially with the possibility of a public enquiry looming. So, given that you’ve interviewed her before and know the sensitivities of everyone involved, we thought you’d be the right man for the job.’
Mulcahy had to stop himself from smiling. He knew damn well that this could only be Javier Martinez’s doing. How many strings must he have pulled to get that one to fly?
‘Well? Don’t you have anything to say?’
‘Yes. I mean, no, sir,’ Mulcahy stumbled. ‘Will anyone else be going?’
‘No, you’re only going over to take a statement from her. Someone there can witness it. I’ll ask Lonergan if he wants you to take some mugs of this fella they’ve arrested and try for a positive ID. But that may not be necessary at this stage. Word is the girl still doesn’t recollect much of the incident at all. So it’s mostly a formality, but we have to be seen to respond quickly to their offer. Lonergan can always send one of his own team further down the line if she comes up with anything else subsequently. I just want it wrapped up at our end for now, okay?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. See Noreen outside about your travel arrangements. You’ll be going tomorrow. Short notice, I know, but we want to get this done as soon as possible.’
‘Not a problem.’ Mulcahy glanced over at Healy, who was now apparently preoccupied by the muted television screen on the wall again. ‘Will that be all, Brendan?’
‘No, Mike, there was one more thing.’ Healy sat forward in his chair. ‘I had a call from Chief Superintendent Murtagh from Southern this morning. He said a job had come up in Cork that you were interested in applying for.’
Mulcahy’s spirits lifted. At last, Dowling must have agreed to take the compensation package – and his timing couldn’t have been better. ‘Yes, head of the Southern Region drugs task force. He thinks I’d be good for it.’
‘I’ve no doubt you would, Mike,’ Healy smiled at him. ‘I’ve no doubt of that at all. But as I told Chief Superintendent Murtagh, I’m afraid you won’t be available to take up his offer.’
Mulcahy’s innards instantly felt hollowed out, his head as if it’d been pumped full of air.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said I told Murtagh you wouldn’t be free to take it up.’
&n
bsp; ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Well, I should’ve thought it would be obvious. With Brogan out of commission for the foreseeable future over on Lonergan’s murder team, we’re an inspector down here, so obviously I can’t afford to lose you as well. Especially not in the current climate. You’re going have to stay on in Sex Crimes until we get Brogan back.’
It hit home like a punch in the gut, a real sucker punch, and now Mulcahy felt the breath go out of his body from it.
‘But for God’s sake, Brendan, that could take ages. What about the job? I’ve been waiting months for an opening like this to come up.’
‘I know, it’s a tough break, Mike, but I really can’t afford to let you go just now. Even if I’d wanted to do you the favour’ – he paused, filling the momentary silence with a vengeful little smile – ‘I wouldn’t be in a position to. Not unless I wanted to make a rod for my own back. And anyway, Murtagh was very understanding about it – as I’m sure he’ll tell you himself. So, when you get back from Madrid, you can take Brogan’s office and I’ll be in touch regarding her caseload. We’ll have to sort you out with some staff as well, of course, seeing as she’s taken all hers with her.’
Mulcahy didn’t even hear the rest of it. A horrible pounding in his head was blocking everything out.
He needed somewhere to go, somewhere to sit and calm down and stop the damn torment that seemed to have taken up residence in his skull. Jesus, what an idiot he’d been. How could he not have seen this one coming? He should have phoned Murtagh himself as soon as he heard Brogan was being transferred and asked when he might be needed. At least that way he could have gone in to see Healy prepared, had ready some kind of fait accompli. But now? Now, he was just plain buggered. He looked at the itinerary sheet in his hands. Noreen had pounced as soon as he came out the door. ‘It’s the nine-fifteen Aer Lingus flight to Madrid, check in eight-fifteen, arrive…’ Again he hardly took in a word of it. Without even thinking about it he made his way back down to the fourth floor. He saw the door to the incident room was open and knew it was one place guaranteed to be empty now. But he was wrong again. So bloody wrong.
‘How’ya, Inspector.’
Christ almighty, what the hell was Cassidy doing back here?
‘Sergeant? I thought we’d seen the last of you.’
‘No such luck,’ Cassidy grunted, unpinning an A3 blowup of Catriona Plunkett from the board and rolling it up.
For a second the awful thought flashed through Mulcahy’s mind that Cassidy, too, might be being held back from the Murder Squad, that he would be expected to work with the man for the foreseeable future… but it seemed he was to be spared that indignity at least.
‘I was just on my way back from the post-mortem on the girl,’ Cassidy said. ‘I thought I’d stop off to pick up these bits and pieces. She was only fourteen, you know.’
There was real anger in Cassidy’s voice, a sense that he, too, had been seeking the sanctuary of an empty incident room to find some calm. Mulcahy thought of the dead girl himself and felt the weight of a tragedy considerably greater than his own career problems settle on him.
‘Christ, that’s young,’ he said. ‘The ID came in fairly quickly, then?’
Cassidy nodded, pulling some photocopied forensics sheets from the wall and adding them to the pile in front of him. ‘Paula Halpin, from Dartry. Missing persons had her, reported gone by her parents Tuesday night. Went out to the shop to get fags for her mother, didn’t come back.’
‘God, how would you live with that?’ Mulcahy said, thinking how guilty the mother must be feeling. ‘From Dartry, did you say?’
Somehow it struck an odd note. Then again, there was no particular geographical cluster relating to The Priest’s victims. Cassidy looked at him as if to say: what of it?
Mulcahy let it go. ‘So, how did the PM go? Do we have a cause of death?’
Cassidy continued staring at him, as if considering whether or not to share. In the end, he turned away again and nodded. ‘The preliminary results indicate that she died of a major myocardial infarction.’
‘A heart attack?’
‘Yeah, brought on by shock from the severity of her injuries, the doc said. Seems she’d suffered from a heart murmur since birth. Did for her, apparently – but they’re still looking into that.’
‘The poor kid.’ Mulcahy shook his head.
‘You can say that again,’ Cassidy said, as he loped off.
The Long Hall was deserted, the lunchtime rush long over and still too early yet for the after-work crowd. Mulcahy, grateful for a sense of isolation at last, mounted a stool at the long mahogany bar and ordered a pint, thinking of the last time he’d been in here, with Siobhan Fallon, and of that other night – the night they’d spent together before the whole thing blew up about The Priest. Christ, what an unmitigated cock-up the last few weeks had been.
The barman gave him a peculiar look as he set the pint down and Mulcahy realised he’d been leaning into the counter, rubbing his temples, staring like a madman into the huge Victorian mirror behind the bar. He sat up, straightened himself out, breathed deeply in, then out again. He reached for the pint and took a long gulp. Immediately, the wash of cold stout through his system exerted a kind of calm. Then the thought of losing the Southern Region job sent his stomach into spasm again. He took another pull on the pint, trying to think his situation through rationally. It could take months for Brogan and the others to prepare the case for the DPP, assuming they had the right man. And, now they had this Byrne guy in custody, you could be sure they’d take their time getting it right. Meanwhile, because of Healy’s intransigence, every opportunity that came up in Drugs would be closed to him. In other words, he was totally fucked – stuck spending all his time chasing wife beaters, rapists and child abusers.
Mulcahy started flicking through his mental address book of acquaintance and influence. Who could he phone to give him a hand, get him out of this fix? But he knew it was pointless. He’d called in his entire stock of favours when he’d first returned from Madrid and all that had got him was a place in the NBCI, beholden to Brendan Healy. He took another long gulp. The thought of his career going down the pan – with Healy gleefully pulling the chain – was almost too much to bear. Maybe it was time to face the inevitable, he thought, swirling the remains of his pint in the glass. Maybe it was time to throw in the towel.
He was about to order again when he caught another glimpse of himself in the mirror and something clicked in his head. What was it that had bothered him when Cassidy spoke earlier about the murdered girl? Paula Halpin. From Dartry. That was it. Dartry wasn’t that far from his parents’ house. More to the point, it was miles away from Chapelizod where Byrne lived and worked, but only a couple of hundred metres down the road from Palmerston Park and Rinn’s house.
He tried to shake the thought away. It made no sense to focus on it. An arrest had already been made. And Rinn, apart from acting a bit weird about his past, had seemed a perfectly, maybe even more than averagely, respectable guy. It wasn’t even much of a coincidence. Still, the fact of it pulsed like a live electric cable in his head: Dartry. In his mind’s eye he saw a young girl, fourteen years old, all milky-white skin and curly auburn hair, sauntering up the Dartry Road from Milltown Bridge, past the old Laundry Mills and Trinity Hall. In her hand she held a little red plastic purse that seemed to beat and throb, and around her neck hung a glittering cross. But instead of walking on up the hill towards light and life, she turned to take a shortcut through—
‘Are you havin’ another one, boss?’
Startled, Mulcahy was wrenched from his thoughts by the barman, who was holding up an empty pint glass. He shook his head, put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out his phone.
16
Father Touhy, the parish priest of St Imelda’s in Chapelizod, looked like he’d long been on the wrong side of seventy. A frail, slightly hunched man, he had a pale, gentle face and, above his black clergyman’s suit, a shock of white
hair like the head on a pint of Guinness. He made only one enquiry – ‘Are you the young woman who asked that question on the television?’ – before agreeing to speak to her when she answered in the affirmative. Siobhan had phoned his number on the off-chance. His church was locked up and already swamped by reporters and camera crews, spilling off the pavement outside. A whole mob of them had gone racing down there as soon as the Garda press officer, in response to a leading question, announced that yes, Emmet Byrne, the suspect in the Priest case, did indeed have an association with the Catholic Church – he worked as a part-time gardener for the parish church of St Imelda’s, Chapelizod.
Seeing them all there already, Siobhan told the taxi driver to keep going. Mainly because she spotted Anne-Marie Cowen from RTE News doing a piece to camera outside and didn’t feel like talking to her. Just as well. A simple phone call later, and the parish priest was letting her slip in the back door of the tiny semi-detached presbytery around the corner, and sitting her down with a cup of tea. He was glad she’d called, he said, as he felt sure he’d need more direct intervention than God’s to convince the Gardai that they were wrong about ‘poor Emmet’ – who was, Fr Touhy insisted, a man more sinned against than sinning.
Siobhan looked at her watch, eager to get on with it, figuring she had half an hour, maximum, before the rest of the pack realised where the presbytery was and started beating a path to its door. The poor old priest looked like he might be close to tears from the stress of it all already. He even confessed, straight out, his fear that a Catholic clergyman might not be considered the best defender that a man accused of a sex crime, let alone rape and murder, could have these days in Ireland. So maybe he wasn’t so naive after all.
‘I’m sure people will respect the opinion of a parish priest of long standing, like yourself,’ Siobhan said. ‘They’ll want to hear what you have to say about Byrne anyway. Whether they believe it or not is up to them, I suppose.’
He smiled at her, understanding what she was saying. ‘Do you think I’d have him working here if I wasn’t a hundred per cent confident in him? He’s a good man, gentle. On the slow side, yes, if I’m honest. And that’s the problem – his friendliness can sometimes be misinterpreted.’
The Priest Page 28